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Madam Yu doesn’t hesitate to whip Wei Wuxian.

She could, maybe- she’s known Wei Wuxian for ten years, now, since back when he was just Wei Ying, since he was a half-starved orphan- but she doesn’t hesitate. She strikes him eight times with Zidian, not nearly as powerfully as she could have, but she does not hesitate. Lotus Pier is what matters, and Wei Wuxian will recover. Even Yanli- even selfless, loving Yanli- doesn’t step between Wei Wuxian and her mother’s whip.

Even Wei Wuxian himself doesn’t resist.

Wang Lingjiao, standing alone in Lotus Pier’s main hall, just smiles. She’s holding a Wen branding iron in her hand, but she swings it like a toy, barely even acknowledging the heat still radiating off the end.

(She’d threatened Yanli with it. Just once, before Madam Yu had the chance to greet her, but once was enough.)

“What a lovely gesture,” Wang Lingjiao says, voice saccharine sweet. “But- you said he would heal, after a month?” She clicks her tongue like a schoolteacher correcting a naughty child. “The Wen believe that punishment should be permanent, Madam Yu. So that the perpetrator never forgets.” She points her branding iron at Wei Wuxian. “I would request-”

Drip.

“-that you remove the boy’s hand.” After she finishes her sentence, she looks around, frowning. As old and worn-down as these buildings are, she’s pretty sure that there shouldn’t be dripping sounds coming from them. It’s not even raining.

“Mother, you can’t,” Yanli begs.

Madam Yu’s eye twitches minutely. She has already whipped the boy. Cutting off his hand would, indeed, be permanent, in more ways than one.

Wei Wuxian kneels, still silent.

Drip-drip. Drip.

The door hasn’t opened since they all gathered here. Wang Lingjiao doesn’t want to be interrupted, and Madam Yu doesn’t want to risk the wrath of the Wen soldiers outside.

Despite this, there is a small Jiang disciple standing beside Wang Lingjiao. He’s soaked to the bone, as if he was just pulled from the bottom of the lake, where they’ll sometimes gather clay for the local potters. His hair is jet black, not even reflecting the light of the braziers in the hall, and it covers his face nearly entirely. There’s a small part, just above the disciple’s nose, which exposes his ice-pale skin, his lips nearly as white as his chin.

Wang Lingjiao looks down at him, stumbles back a single step. She works to regain her posture, but no one notices her gaffe- the members of her audience are just as shocked at an addition to the cast as she is.

“Well hello, little brother,” she says, sweet as poisoned wine. “You must be the youngest disciple, hm? I thought the youngest one was the one I caught subverting the Wen, but I must have been mistaken.”

The other three people in the room keep staring at the little boy standing next to Wang Lingjiao. He’s wearing summer robes, and just the outermost layer, with the short sleeves- the longer-sleeved underlayer is gone, exposing more of his bone-white flesh. Water drips from every inch of him. He smells strongly of lakeweed and lotus.

(Everyone in Lotus Pier smells of lotus. It’s an occupational hazard. Lakeweed, however, grows only on the bottom of the lake. It’s foul-smelling enough and useless enough that most don’t bother with it.)

Wang Lingjiao glances over to her audience and is disappointed to find that she’s lost their interest. Maybe it’s not too late to insist on capital punishment for the boy?

Her gaze slides down to the little disciple standing beside her.

Or. Perhaps, a different child.

“Well,” Wang Lingjiao sighs, “if the young mistress is so averse to harm coming to Wei Wuxian, then I’m sure another solution could be found.” She reaches down towards the junior disciple, but stops her hand just short of touching his hair. It seems slimy, in this light, and the scent of lakeweed is strong enough that it makes Wang Lingjiao feel nauseous. “Perhaps this disciple could take his place?” She mimes stroking his hair. “Of course, he is younger. An even more permanent punishment would be more appropriate.” Another, truer smile curves upon her lips. “I think that the death penalty would be fair. To pay for the crimes of not just Wei Wuxian, but also his shixiong who thought it funny to play at shooting down the Wen.”

“Don’t,” Wei Wuxian says. It’s the first word he’s spoken since he urged Jiang Yanli behind him, and his voice nearly cracks with effort. “Don’t touch him.”

Wang Lingjiao waggles the branding iron at him. “Now, now,” she says, once more affecting the voice of a chastising schoolteacher, “you mustn’t be so eager to- hm?”

The child has fisted his hand in her robes, just below her waist sash. Her robes soak through near instantly, with water so icy cold that she nearly forgets that it’s yet summer. The apples aren’t even ripe yet.

“Don’t touch me, you filthy Jiang-”

“Jiejie,” the junior disciple says, voice bubbling and burbling as though he’s still underwater, “go swimming with me?”

Jiang Yanli gasps, covering her mouth with her hands. Wei Wuxian, still kneeling, hands still on his knees, clutches his robes so tight they nearly tear. Madam Yu stares at the junior disciple, with what may- may- be tears beading at her eyes.

“-mongrel,” Wang Lingjiao finishes. Then, a scowl twists her face. “Did you just-”

Before she can finish that sentence, something yanks Wang Lingjiao to the floor. Not the little junior disciple- it couldn’t be, he’s too small- but there she is, on the ground anyway, and then the rotten kid starts pulling her by the hair. He’s stronger than he should be, maybe, but Wang Lingjiao’s mind is muddled even on a good day.

As she falls, she drops her Wen branding iron. It lands with a faint, wet hiss, the sound of someone putting a hot coal into a pot of water.

Wang Lingjiao screams for Wen Zhuliu.

Drip.

It was Jiang Yanli’s fault.

She’d been preoccupied- with trying to get her baby brother to get along with their new brother, with trying to keep Mother and Father from fighting loudly enough for the whole world to hear, with her own tumultuous feelings, freshly twelve and now responsible for two young boys. There were her parents, sure, but they were barely responsible for Yanli and her baby brother. Not to mention, Yanli’s first meeting with her fiance had passed three months previous, and she was still stirring on whether or not the boy liked her. Besides that, Mother had still been dawdling over whether or not Yanli would attend the classes in Gusu, and Yanli had asked over a month ago, before Mother even had the chance to get distracted with Father bringing back a skinny little boy to live with them-

She’d been busy, but that’s no excuse.

She’d been sitting in a pavilion, one nearer the streets and vendors than the proper, swimming parts of the lake, and practicing embroidery for when it came to be time for her to stitch her own wedding clothes. Her wedding wouldn’t be for at least eight years, but that hadn’t mattered to Yanli. Practice makes perfect, Mother used to say, until she finally realized that Yanli would never be a talented enough cultivator and her lips thinned in disapproval, instead.

“Jiejie, go swimming with me?” Yanli’s baby brother asked, fidgeting and sweaty in the midsummer heat, even without his long-sleeved underlayer. He looked unkempt, like that, but no one wore all their layers when they were swimming.

Their father had- once again- taken Wei Ying for private lessons, for the kind of attention that Yanli’s first baby brother had always craved. And Yanli knew that her baby brother went swimming when he got too angry and upset, that the embrace of the lake’s water was the closest he would get to a calming hug from his parents.

(Yanli didn’t count. She was his sister, not his mother.)

Yanli had smiled, and set her embroidery aside, and stroked her baby brother’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” she said, thumbing at her baby brother’s cheeks. They were just as chubby as they’d been when he was a baby and Yanli was four, already enamored with her new sibling. “Jiejie is busy with embroidery, right now. Can you wait until I’m finished, and then we’ll go swimming together?”

His lip had been poking out, trembling, but he nodded anyway. He liked being told that he was brave, liked when Yanli called him a good boy for being patient, liked when she said “Goodness, what in the world did I do to get such a good baby brother?”

Yanli didn’t especially like swimming with her baby brother. She didn’t mind it- she loved spending time with her baby brother, since their parents wouldn’t- but her home was firmly on land. At most, the muddy edges of the lotus fields. Not like her baby brother, who slipped into the water as easily as a frog and swam twice as fast. He whined when Yanli tried to just sit at the edge of the pier, dangling her legs in the water, and begged her to join him in the water, to play tag and hide and seek and other games that Yanli had never been adept in. Sometimes, it was nice to just get to sit in a pavilion and do embroidery, which was something that Yanli was actually rather talented in. Even at twelve, Yanli was painfully aware of her mediocrity- average looks, average intelligence, and slightly below average cultivation. The only thing that she could force herself to excel in was kindness, and the only thing she was naturally gifted in was stitching.

So Yanli begged off from being the perfect older sister, just for one day. Not even a day, just the afternoon- just for long enough for her to practice her embroidery. She’d left her baby brother alone with whatever emotions were overwhelming his little body, alone with all the energy that he could only escape through swimming. He just got upset so often, and it was hard for Yanli to have to shoulder that, along with her own emotions. A-Xian had only been with them for a little over a month, that day, but Yanli had already noticed how much easier it was. He still relied on her- who else could he rely on, in Lotus Pier?- but his emotions weighed so much less heavily on her back.

Yanli gave herself one afternoon. Just a little bit of time for herself, to do something that she herself enjoyed.

That’s no excuse. One afternoon is all it takes.

It was all her fault.

Drip.

The doors to the hall slam open. It’s a calm day, with just that late-summer humidity hanging in the air. There aren’t even any clouds in the sky. It’s just barely evening, the sun still dawdling between afternoon and twilight.

Despite this, there’s an undeniable darkness in the air. The older disciples- used to looking after their juniors on night hunts- gather nearer the younger, disregarding the Wen prepared to storm the sect of the Yunmeng-Jiang.

No one standing on the planks recognizes the junior disciple that drags Wang Lingjiao by the hair.

“Wen Zhuliu, Wen Zhuliu,” the woman sobs, desperately, “help me.”

Wang Lingjiao does not like Wen Zhuliu. It’s generally irrelevant, but Wen Zhuliu doesn’t like her, either.

Despite this, he is under orders from Wen Chao, who is just a few li away, in Yunping, to protect Wang Lingjiao.

He approaches the both of them cautiously. Child though it may seem, no child has the strength to drag a nearly full-grown woman around by the hair.

No normal child.

But Wen Zhuliu has melted cores of creatures more frightening than this child, and certainly more powerful.

And even if he’s wrong. His duty is to protect Wang Lingjiao. Not to second-guess the strengths of a child.

“Wen Zhuliu!” Wang Lingjiao shrieks, as the child drags her forward another plank. They’re toe-to-toe now, Wen Zhuliu and the child.

Wen Zhuliu, indelicately, roundhouse kicks the child’s head. It should send the child flying, down into the depths of the lake, buried with the rest of the skeletons of this sect.

Instead, the child’s head snaps to his shoulder with unnatural speed and at an unnatural angle, deftly avoiding Wen Zhuliu’s strike.

From behind Wang Lingjiao, someone gasps lightly.

Instead of kicking the child into the water, Wen Zhuliu bends down, lifting the child from under his armpits. He holds onto Wang Lingjiao’s hair for a moment, but his hands are small and soaked with water. His whole body is soaked, in fact- it’s as though he were out for a swim when Wang Lingjiao arrived, and didn’t dry off before coming to confront them.

Regardless. Wen Zhuliu tosses the child aside, into the still placid waters of his home. He doesn’t much care where the child goes, as long as he can follow his orders.

He helps Wang Lingjiao to her feet- or, tries to, before she bats his hands away from her shoulders and falls back to the wood of the dock. Her hair is unkempt, makeup smeared, clothes wet and wrinkled.

And then, something grabs Wen Zhuliu’s ankle.

When he turns to look down, it’s the child, again- his skin so white it hurts, in the waning sunlight, and seeming unnaturally long from where the child bobs in the water to where Wen Zhuliu stands on a dock.

“Shixiong,” the child says, voice thick and exhausted, “do you know how to swim?”

He yanks.

Drip.

It was Wei Wuxian’s fault.

It had been- a month? Three weeks? Longer than a week, at least- since Uncle Jiang had brought him to Lotus Pier. After he’d run away in the middle of the night ‘cause of some eight-year-old threatening to set dogs on him.

Dogs that had to be sent away from Lotus Pier because of Wei Wuxian.

Uncle Jiang had introduced him as Wei Wuxian’s new shidi. Wei Wuxian’s first impression of him had been… subpar. His shidi, although adorable in the way that all well-fed children were, was red-faced in anger more often than not. He threw fits, stomped his feet, whined, and made fun of Wei Wuxian.

He did promise to protect Wei Wuxian from dogs, but that was after he’d threatened him with the dogs. So.

The thing was- looking back, he was just a little kid. He’d already been shorter than Wei Wuxian, even though he’d never lived on the streets. And after he threatened Wei Wuxian, he had, apparently, cried so hard that he nearly threw up before going to get Yanli to bring Wei Ying back home. And when he fought with Wei Wuxian over food, it was a game, dueling with chopsticks until Uncle Jiang told him to cut it out, to act like a proper sect heir and not tease Wei Wuxian.

He was only a little kid.

He was still annoying, though, especially when he threw tantrums and yelled so loud, like he could make the sun rise from the West if he shrieked high enough. He stomped his feet and beat his fists against the wood of Lotus Pier and, in all, didn’t seem to care how childish he acted.

(Of course he didn’t. He was- eight? Nine? No, he’d been younger than Wei Wuxian. Seven or eight, then.)

(What kind of person can’t remember the age of their own martial brother?)

It had started in the morning. Yanli hadn’t made breakfast, Wei Wuxian didn’t think. It had been plain congee, maybe? With lotus seeds? Or- it could’ve just been lotus paste buns, actually. There had definitely been lotus seeds involved somehow. Not Yanli’s cooking, at least.

They’d all eaten together, even Madam Yu, back then, and Wei Wuxian and Shidi had gotten into some kind of stupid competition about- who could eat more? Who could eat faster? Something like that, the sort of kiddy contests that just made grown-ups sigh and chide them to please act like proper young masters.

And then, after breakfast- Wei Wuxian had been licking his fingers, he remembered, in awe that he could eat so much food for breakfast and that it could taste so good- his shidi had pushed into Wei Wuxian’s side, getting into his space like always.

“Shixiong,” he said, sounding awfully smug for a little kid, “do you know how to swim?”

He didn’t, actually. He’d never had the chance for his parents to teach him, and Yiling was far enough from any rivers and lakes that it had never been on Wei Wuxian’s radar.

“Nope,” Wei Wuxian said, shameless. “Uncle Jiang said he’d teach me, though.”

Shidi scoffed. “Father’s-”

Wei Wuxian had long since forgotten what mild insult his shidi had assigned to the sect leader. Old, maybe? Slow? Too busy? Something like that. Nothing cruel.

“-so I can teach you, instead. Okay?”

Wei Wuxian laughed. He’d only been in Lotus Pier for about a month, but he was already catching up on lessons, and would overtake his shidi shortly. It seemed silly to him, that Shidi could be better than him at something. It was in the name- shidi, junior martial brother.

That had made his shidi puff up his cheeks up big and red, and Wei Wuxian pinched them, which made Shidi bat his hands away, which started a slap fight in the middle of the hallway.

Uncle Jiang had scolded them- the both of them, Wei Wuxian was pretty sure- and had sent them both on their way.

Wei Wuxian’s shidi took him out to the end of the piers. It was one of the docks that Wei Wuxian hadn’t memorized, yet, all the way out into the lake, a fair distance from the other piers, the rest of the sect. The dock had ended in a large wooden platform, with a waist-high railing around every side but one.

“Technically, it’s for practicing forms,” Shidi said- Wei Wuxian remembered that, clear as day, that his shidi liked to say technically, to pretend he was smarter than he was- “but no one else is usin’ it today, so we can!”

Wei Wuxian’s memories were, as a general rule, pretty foggy. He only had one or two left of his parents- he’d had more, when he was younger, but they’d faded with time and disuse.

He didn’t really remember most of that day.

He remembered the dock.

(The dock is still there. No one uses it for forms, anymore- there’s rumors of a vicious ghost, or a water ghoul, but if it were either of those, then they could just take care of it. They’re a cultivation sect.

By unspoken agreement, that dock has become Wei Wuxian’s private moping area.)

They were out on the dock together for a while, at least. Wei Wuxian’s shidi had climbed into the water for a little bit, kicking and splashing and trying to bait Wei Wuxian in, but he’d climbed back out, when it became clear that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t be jumping into the water, quite yet. They lazed about on the dock proper for a bit- long enough for Shidi to mostly dry out, even in the lakey humidity of the summer- before he started needling Wei Wuxian to get into the lake again. Wei Ying hadn’t wanted to get in the lake- despite his bravado, the depths frightened him, the fact that he couldn’t even see the bottom, the way the lakeweed seemed to reach up to tickle at his ankle- but his shidi had kept needling him, trying to force him, even shoving him. They’d been in a full-blown fight when Uncle Jiang came.

He’d scolded them, first. Both of them, even though it really was just Shidi’s fault, and Wei Ying had said so, he thought. Probably.

After the scolding and the forced apologies, he’d said something about giving Wei Ying some private lessons. Just so he could catch up, and he could come back and play later, but Shidi had gone all red in the face with pouting.

“You never teach me in private,” he accused, arms crossed over his chest. He’d looked childish then, and he looks even younger in Wei Wuxian’s memories, a little boy playing at maturity so that his father didn’t scold him for throwing a tantrum. “Even though you say I gotta catch up, you don’t-”

Uncle Jiang said something in reply, something which seemed to make so much sense, back then- that Wei Ying’s shidi had lived in Lotus Pier his whole life, so he shouldn’t need private tutorials, that if his shidi wanted to catch up, he should work twice as hard in regular classes- and then had picked Wei Wuxian up, holding him against his chest.

That had made Shidi even more upset. His face and eyes, still red and wet from their squabble, had somehow gone even redder and wetter. He always got mad when Uncle Jiang carried a-Ying.

“I hope you don’t even come back,” Shidi spat, but his voice was shaking and it was just the kind of thing he said, when he felt like no one liked him and he wanted to beat them to it.

Uncle Jiang had just sighed, shaking his head.

Then he’d left, with Wei Ying watching his shidi at the end of the dock, over his shoulder.

Their lesson wasn’t even that long- so short that no bells rang, as Wei Ying mimicked Uncle Jiang’s archery stance. Wei Ying could’ve gone back right away, as soon as Uncle Jiang had said Well, if you don’t have any questions, you can head off, then. Could’ve tossed the practice bow into the pile and run all the way back to that dock, even though everyone told him not to run in case he slipped. He could’ve gotten back before his shidi even had the chance to make himself stop crying about their stupid fight, could’ve said “Aw, Shidi, I know you didn’t mean it,” and could’ve made everything alright, again.

Instead, he moved slowly. He went back to their shared bedroom, made his bed and re-folded his laundry, practiced his character writing homework, got some snacks from the kitchen, still so enchanted with the novelty of being able to get food whenever he wanted.

He could’ve made it back in time.

But he’d been hurt, still pouting at how his shidi had pushed him, how his shidi had told him not to come back, and even a little bit at how Shidi seemed to think that Uncle Jiang shouldn’t carry Wei Ying, even though Wei Ying didn’t even have parents, and how his shidi didn’t seem to realize how lucky he was to have a dad like Uncle Jiang-

Wei Ying could’ve made it back in time. He chose not to.

It was all his fault.

Drip.

Wen Zhuliu’s head hits the planks of the pier with a dull thud- the wood is too old and too wet for a satisfying crack- and then, achingly slowly, he is dragged into the lake.

He doesn’t surface.

Wang Lingjiao is fully panicking, now. She’s sobbing openly as she digs through her pack, digging desperately for something, anything-

Yu Ziyuan steps through the great hall first, her daughter and foster son following her. Yu Ziyuan keeps her gaze straight, steady, and proud, but the two fools behind her have no such compunctions- they’re looking all over the place, desperately, as though whatever they hope to find will suddenly appear in front of them.

“Bitch,” Yu Ziyuan spits. She strides forward with the iron will that so often defines others’ recollections of the Violet Spider. She stomps on Wang Lingjiao’s arm, hard enough that everyone standing outside can hear the snapping of bone. “You dare- you dare- to come to Lotus Pier, to my home, and try and force me to cut off my disciple’s hand?” She grinds her foot down on Wang Lingjiao’s forearm, and Wang Lingjiao lets out a low, hideous moan. “Fool.”

She heaves Wang Lingjiao up by the arm- the unbroken one, thankfully- and shoves her indelicately towards the Wen forces.

“Go,” she orders, voice cold and steady. “You will not take Lotus Pier tonight.”

The Wen soldiers shift from foot to foot. Wen Zhuliu was their trump card- who could possibly stand against the might that was the Core-Melting Hand? Now that he was gone, it was doubtful that even all of them together could stand against the Violet Spider, much less all of the Jiang sect.

The sky had finally turned from late afternoon to twilight. Not quite night, yet, but dark enough. The sky is more purple than blue, now, and more indigo than purple. The evening star can just be seen, off on the horizon. And in the center of the sky- where the moon will be, in a few scant hours- a firework in the shape of the Wen emblem appears.

“You bitch,” Wang Lingjiao says, voice shaking. “You stupid bitch. When the rest of the Wen get here, they’re going to- they’re going to-”

“Jiejie,” a voice interrupts, plaintively, and Wang Lingjiao shrieks with terror.

“Jiejie,” the voice repeats, more forcefully, “go swimming with me?”

Drip.

It was Yu Ziyuan’s own fault. Her son, her sect, her fault.

That’s all there is to it. If Yu Ziyuan hadn’t insisted that her son find something to be better than that Wei Ying in-

Well. She did, and he didn’t.

Her son. Her sect. Her fault.

Drip.

One of the Wen soldiers- one who remembers his master’s temper and orders to Wen Zhuliu- catches Wang Lingjiao by the elbow before she is pulled, fully, into the waters.

Unfortunately, saving a life isn’t always the smartest thing to do, and that soldier is pulled into the lake along with his mistress.

The waters in this part of Lotus Pier- the area that is used, officially, for welcoming guests- aren’t that deep. Many cultivators, mostly of the Nie and Lan (and subsidiary) sects can’t swim, and it simply wouldn’t do for a visiting dignitary to drown because they slipped off the frequently slippery docks of Lotus Pier. The waters here barely come up to an adult’s shoulders, if that.

Despite this, Wang Lingjiao and her would-be savior do not surface.

The Wen soldiers are now well and truly anxious, but their emblem is in the sky. What cowards there may be among them aren’t fool enough to flee when their master will be coming to attend them soon, and what cowards are foolish enough are well-enough liked that someone keeps them in place.

Yu Ziyuan stares the lot of them down.

This is her sect, and she’ll be damned if she lets any of them hurt her family or her home.

(Behind her, in the great hall, the wet hissing of the Wen branding iron grows distinctly drier.

The wood of Lotus Pier isn’t supposed to burn, perpetually soaked as it is in the water of its lakes.

Forever burning or forever splashing- which would win?)

Drip.

The first person to draw his sword is a young man by the name of Wen Enning. He was, unfortunately, a very brave boy, and lived up perfectly to the ever-burning spirit of the Qishan-Wen. He was dedicated to bettering himself, to fighting for his clan, to following the orders of his superiors.

Maybe he didn’t deserve to die.

But Wen Enning draws his sword, stabs into the stomach of Wei Wuxian’s fourth shidi, and this emboldens the rest of the Wen soldiers to follow his lead. Without Wen Zhuliu or Wang Lingjiao, Wen Enning is the most-respected and- even with Wen Zhuliu and Wang Lingjiao- best-liked soldier in this outfit. The rest of the Wen contingent begin attacking Lotus Pier, as the great hall begins to burn behind the stand-in sect leader.

No one quite notices when a dripping wet seven-and-a-half-year-old takes Wen Enning’s hand in his own and pulls him into the impossibly dark shallows of Lotus Pier.

The waters of Lotus Pier are perpetually cerulean. A bright, genial azure that encapsulates the friendly atmosphere of Yunmeng. The colors of the lakes of Yunmeng are as prototypical of its resident sect as the mountains of Gusu, of the golds of Lanling, of the sabers of Qinghe. The shallows of Lotus Pier are as friendly and unthreatening as the current sect leader.

Right now, the shallows of Lotus Pier are an oversaturated indigo, dark enough to rival the winter nights of Qinghe. It’s an unpleasant color, this close to the proper streets- even the waters at the farthest-penetrating points of the docks never get to such a rich shade.

The Wen soldiers, unused to fighting in such an environment- most of them have never left the Nightless City, matter of fact- do not notice this warning. A sparse number of Yunmeng-Jiang disciples do, but they’re currently a bit preoccupied. They’d been playing with kites and arrows, before the Wen came, and hadn’t been practicing their sword forms as often as they should.

Their swords are in the westernmost section of Lotus Pier, where all but one of the training areas are. The only people among them who are armed are Yu Ziyuan and her maids.

And the Wen are here, all well-armed.

And Wei Wuxian’s fourth shidi, Jiang Yong, is bleeding from a rather serious gut wound.

There’s not time to be concerned about the shade of the water.

(A sparse number of Yunmeng-Jiang disciples notice the colors of the shallows. Among them are Jiang Yanli, though her eyes swim with tears; Wei Wuxian, who looks more serious than any of his juniors can remember; Jinzhu and Yinzhu, who only exchange a dark look before drawing their weapons; and Yu Ziyuan, whose fist still crackles with the power of Zidian.)

Drip.

The fighting is vicious. Jiang Yanli- the weakest cultivator here by far, even counting sixth shidi- stays behind her mother and her mother’s maids, back pressed against the wall of the great hall, despite the rapidly spreading warmth coming from within.

Jiang Yanli, standing at the back of the battle, has the privilege of taking in details that the people fighting cannot. It can be dangerous, in battle, to take a step back and look at the bigger picture.

Yanli sees: Jiang Yong, stumbling towards the outer docks that lead to the armory, supported by his shidi and shijie.

Wei Wuxian, with no sword and half as many wits as usual, grab a discarded bow from the pier and use it as a makeshift garrotte.

Her mother and her mother’s maids, nearly singlehandedly holding back the Wen flood.

A scattering of Wens- the ones who harm Jiang disciples- being pulled into the shallows of Lotus Pier. More, at the beginning of this affront, but now much fewer.

The fire burns brighter at her back.

“A-Xian,” Yanli says. She grabs her brother’s sleeve in her hand, despite the countless warnings she’s received from her mother and father to stay out of any fighting that might happen. “A-Xian. We have to take them farther back. To where the lake is deeper.”

Her shidi looks at her like she’s crazy.

“Shijie, if we take them in deeper, they’ll be able to burn more-”

“A-Xian,” Yanli repeats forcefully, tightening her grip on her shidi’s sleeve. “We have to go to where the water is deeper. Plus,” she adds, “the armory is over the deepest part, right?”

Wei Wuxian stares at her for a moment- a moment they really can’t spare- worrying his lip between his teeth.

“Alright,” he finally says. “Alright. Shijie, you go first, okay? These guys don’t look too smart, if they think we’re retreating, then-”

Jiang Yanli doesn’t stay to hear her shidi finish his sentence. She’s already running- nearly slipping on the wet planks, even with having grown up here- and the great hall keeps burning. She has a plan, but she’s not sure if it’ll work the way she wants it to.

Her parents always told her to stay out of the fighting.

Drip.

Yu Ziyuan doesn’t have any particularly strong feelings about Wei Ying. It’s been difficult for her to dredge up feelings of any kind, for quite a while now, but the rage coursing through her veins right now makes her less forgiving than usual.

So, when Wei Ying puts his hand on her shoulder without warning, she nearly follows through with what Wang Lingjiao had suggested.

“Madam Yu,” he says, “we need to take them back to where the water is deeper.”

Yu Ziyuan stares at him. She’s stopped fighting- a critical error which she will chide herself for, later. Her first instinct, as always, is to argue- they have no idea whether the thing dragging the Wen soldiers down is on their side or not, they could be doing just as much damage to their own sect, by colluding with- what, a water ghoul? Surely not, even the most tenacious water ghoul would be reduced to crawling, and the passive defences of Lotus Pier are nothing to sneer at.

But the deeper waters are farther from the town. It’s safer, that way, for the civilians that the Yunmeng-Jiang protect and patronize.

“Fine,” she snaps. She uses Meishan sign to communicate to Jinzhu and Yinzhu, who nod sharply and spread the word through the Jiang disciples that are still alive.

It’s a bloodbath. But at least both sides are taking losses.

The Wen follow the Jiang to the deeper waters.

Drip.

They say there are no better swimmers in all the cultivation world than the disciples of Yunmeng-Jiang. Those born with Jiang blood, they say, can swim before they can crawl, if you think to put them in the lake. They fight water ghouls bare-handed- how are they supposed to hold a sword, when they’re diving underwater? Anyone with Yunmeng blood is sure to be a fair enough swimmer, but the members of the resident cultivation sect- well, they could probably do trading in Gusu, with the Lan, and then swim all the way to Qishan, stopping at all the major sects along the way, in time to do more trading the next day.

The Qishan-Wen- who live far inland, and most of them in the Nightless City- don’t have quite so many talented swimmers among them. Not to mention that they aren’t dressed for it. Although armor may be prudent when going to battle, it does little more than weigh people down when pushed or pulled into the depths of a lake, now deeper than two grown men standing on each others’ shoulders. The Yunmeng-Jiang, on the other hand, are dressed for the pacific summer day it had been- a thin, long-sleeved underlayer and a shorter outer layer, neither prone to entanglement when wet. When a Yunmeng-Jiang disciple is shoved into the water, they climb right back out.

When a Qishan-Wen soldier is pulled into the water, they tend not to surface.

That’s only for those who are pulled into the water from below, of course. Those who are pushed seem to have an easier time of it. The waters of Lotus Pier are as hostile to the Wen as ever, but more languid, now, as if it has been enraged for too long to continue the farce.

A few of the Yunmeng-Jiang disciples notice this. Although nearly all of them are smaller than the slightest Wen here on the dock, they are no less vicious. The braver ones dive into the water itself, trusting whatever is drowning the Wen to accept their help. The smarter ones shove the Wen off the pier and then kneel, holding their heads underwater until bubbles stop coming up and the body starts floating upside-down.

Jiang Yanli has guided her sect to the halfway point between the armory and the ancestral hall. It isn’t the point in Lotus Pier where the waters are deepest- that point is the northeasternmost training dock, where four grown men could stand on each others’ shoulders and not even brush the bottom of a wave’s crest- but it feels right.

Jiang Liang and Jiang Gan arrive shortly thereafter. Jiang Gan stops dead in her tracks for a moment, apparently startled by the sudden arrival of her martial siblings, but recovers quickly. She and Jiang Liang distribute the swords to any Jiang disciple they see empty-handed- and even to Wei Wuxian, who has begun to tire of his makeshift garrotte. He tosses the broken bow aside with pleasure, catching the sword as it flies through the air straight into his palm.

This is when Wen Chao arrives, with reinforcements, and Jiang Fengmian arrives, alone.

Drip.

Wen Chao arrives so loudly and so pompously that everyone stops dead in their tracks.

“What,” he demands, “is going on here?”

Jiang Fengmian, by contrast, arrives nearly timidly. He walks the paths of Lotus Pier- unlike Wen Chao, who had arrived by sword- and takes the time to toss the Wen branding iron into the lake, before finding himself to the rear of the Wen contingent. He pardon mes and excuse mes his way through the crowd, until he’s standing beside his wife, who is coated with sweat and has a strand of hair falling from her bun.

“My lady,” he says, mildly, “may I ask what transpired here today?”

Yu Ziyuan scoffs. “It’s nice of you to finally join us, Fengmian,” and despite her tone, he knows that it is.

“I asked you a question,” Wen Chao snaps.

Wei Wuxian- who is even sweatier than his foster mother, and twice as unkempt- laughs aloud. “Ey, Wen Chao, this isn’t Qishan, you know? Just because you ask the sect leader’s wife a question, doesn’t mean she has to answer. Especially not if you’re rude about it.”

Wen Chao glares at him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Young Master Wen,” Jiang Fengmian says, more sharply than he had spoken to his wife, “this is my sect, and I am its leader. You are not even the heir to your own sect- I recommend you think more carefully before you ask any questions.”

Wen Chao scoffs. “I’m still the young master of the Wen sect,” he says, arrogant, “and I’ll ask whatever questions I please.”

He turns to look at one of his footsoldiers. “Where’s Wen Zhuliu? And Jiaojiao?”

The footsoldier- who remembers his master’s temper- looks to the side a moment, doing some mental calculations.

“We think them dead, my lord,” he eventually answers. “Killed by the Jiang sect.”

“Dead?” Wen Chao repeats. He pauses a moment, then slaps the footsoldier across the face so hard that he nearly stumbles into the water. Just one foot, hovering above the surface- he could recover, if someone helped him counterbalance- but then the bottom of his sole breaks the surface tension of the lake, and an ice cold hand wraps around his foot, yanking him into the murky waters.

Wen Chao does not notice.

“You killed them,” he says, pointing an accusing finger towards Madam Yu.

“I did not,” Madam Yu says, voice cool. She’s still breathing heavily, but any cultivator worth their salt knows to catch their breath in the lulls. “I had nothing to do with Zhao Zhuliu or that wench you sent him in with.”

“You lie! Then- if it wasn’t you, it must have been him! Or some other dogblood Jiang cultivator!” Wen Chao moves his finger to point towards Wei Wuxian, then lets it drop as he motions to the crowd of Jiang cultivators around him.

Wei Wuxian scoffs, but before he can say anything, Jiang Fengmian holds his hand up.

“Young Master Wen,” he says, calmly, “it seems that no one here had any hand in the supposed deaths of Wen Zhuliu or Wang Lingjiao, if they’re even dead at all.” He smiles. “Perhaps they left without telling anyone.”

Wen Chao seethes. “They wouldn’t. They both know better than that.”

Wei Wuxian scoffs again, but says nothing. Wen Chao turns slowly, stares him down.

“I see you still haven’t learned how to discipline your servants,” he says. “Didn’t Jiaojiao explain to you? He needs a permanent punishment, to forever remember the wrongs he committed against the Qishan-Wen.”

The Jiang sect goes still.

“He,” Jiang Fengmian says, voice even icier than his wife’s, “is the heir to the Yunmeng-Jiang sect. He is no servant.”

“Just the son of one,” Wen Chao says. “And someone here killed Jiaojiao. If he’s the sect heir, shouldn’t he take responsibility for everything that happens in this sect?” He draws his sword cleanly, levels it at Wei Wuxian’s neck. “I think the death penalty should do fine. And, in my infinite mercies, I won’t even insist on the death by a thousand cuts.” He closes one eye, mimes cutting Wei Wuxian’s throat with his sword. “Just one should do it.”

Wei Wuxian is the only one on the pier smiling.

“Are you sure, Chaochao?” he cinches his hands around the back of his head, sword sticking up like a commander’s feather. “Your little guard dog isn’t here anymore. I doubt you could handle me.”

Wen Chao’s sword trembles. Whether it’s from nerves or rage, no one can tell.

“Fight me,” he orders.

Wei Wuxian shrugs languidly and approaches.

It’s an unfair fight. Even the Wen disciples can tell- Wen Chao has his spiritual blade, and he’s not been fighting an army for the past quarter hour. Wei Wuxian has an ordinary metal blade, which will likely snap the same way the former Nie sect leader’s had.

But Wei Wuxian approaches Wen Chao with full confidence. Swagger, even.

“Ah, first,” he says, as if he’d forgotten, “Young Master Wen, if this one wins, you have to leave Lotus Pier, alright? And take all your little friends with you.”

Wen Chao grinds his teeth. “Fine.”

“Swear on your ancestors,” Wei Wuxian orders.

(They have no reason to trust Wen Chao’s word, but a gasp spreads through the crowd, nonetheless. It’s a serious oath that Wei Wuxian is asking, even though, technically, he is the sect heir and Wen Chao just an ordinary young master.

Swearing an oath is an important thing.)

Wen Chao glares at him. “Fine. I swear on my ancestors, if you defeat me, I will take my soldiers on this day and leave Lotus Pier.”

This, if anything, is even more damning.

“Alright,” Wei Wuxian says, “don’t chicken out, then.”

He draws his practice sword. It’s a bit too small for him, and the handle is starting to come loose, but there’s no way to know whether it’s from Wei Wuxian’s rather reckless fighting style, or from the years it’s spent nurturing Yunmeng cultivators.

Wen Chao keeps his sword pointed at Wei Wuxian’s neck.

“Wei Wuxian,” he says, “when I kill you, I’m going to hang your head from the gates of the Nightless City.”

Drip. Drip-drip.

Before Wei Wuxian can respond, a small body appears between the two of them. An icy, wet fist clenched in Wen Chao’s robes.

“What the fuck is this,” Wen Chao demands. “Some kind of-”

“Shixiong, do you know how to swim?”

“-Jiang trick?”

Jiang Fengmian stares. “My lady,” he says, voice hoarse, “is that-?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?” Wen Chao demands. “What is this supposed to be? Are the Jiang so weak that they would resort to-”

“Shixiong.” The fist in Wen Chao’s robes tightens its grip, and the icy wetness spreads farther, until there’s lake water pouring into his boot. “Do you know how to swim?”

“-using children to fight their wars?”

Wen Chao scowls down at the small child that’s latched onto his robes. And here he was going to return the youngest disciple to the Jiang, even if only in death. Now, this worthless little thing wants to interrupt him?

Wen Chao slams a backhand as hard as he can into the child, and he misses.

At least, that’s what he assumes, for the brief moment he has to think about it.

Wen Chao overbalances. The child steps backwards, following the force of Wen Chao’s intended blow.

The docks of Lotus Pier aren’t particularly wide. Perhaps eight steps across, at the widest?

This is not the widest.

Wen Chao twists, trying to right himself, and only succeeds in helping the child push him into the lakes. For just a moment, the curtain of clammy hair parts, and Wen Chao sees the child’s face in full. He looks surprisingly innocent- his face holds no trace of adulthood, yet, and his eyes are surprisingly big for a boy. His irises are a pale gray, and his pupils are blown wide.

It is the last face that Wen Chao ever sees, as he sinks further into the lake than he should.

Drip.

There’s a brief spell of silence, in Lotus Pier, as everyone stares at the place where Wen Chao vanished.

“They’re all dead,” a Wen footsoldier eventually says, breaking the spell of silence.

“They are,” Yu Ziyuan agrees. She pushes past her foster son, standing at the forefront of the Jiang forces. “And if you don’t want to follow them, then you’ll leave immediately.” She brandishes Zidian, still in its whip form.

She’s bluffing. She has no faith in whatever creature has lent its power to the Jiang forces, and despite the loss of Zhao Zhuliu and Wen Chao- and with them, most of the morale of the Wen forces- she doubts that the current residents of Lotus Pier could repel the masses of Wen cultivators who are already overrunning them.

The Wen stay in place, for a moment. Then-

“Shixiong, do you know how to swim?”

The voice is high-pitched and earnest, and no one can tell where it’s coming from. Just a single moment later, a particularly strong wave washes over the pier, only where the Wen cultivators are standing.

The Wen cultivators stay in place for another moment, until Yu Ziyuan snaps Zidian towards them.

“Are you all idiots? Go! Get out! Your master swore to leave, and the spirits here won’t stomach you staying! Unless you all want to drown along with your masters-”

The Wen cultivators flee.

The Jiang cultivators all stay there, standing stock-still. They’re all breathing heavily, a bit in shock.

“Boy,” Wei Wuxian says, exhausted, “and here I thought I couldn’t do impressions.”

There’s a tense, awkward laughter- the tension is relieved, suddenly, and some of the disciples begin chatting with each other.

“Sect Leader?” One of the disciples asks.

“Dismissed,” Madam Yu says. “If you need medical care, then go to the healers. Everyone else, take the practice swords back to the armory. After that…”

“After that, get some rest,” Jiang Fengmian interrupts. “We’ll have to discuss things further tomorrow.”

The disciples exchange looks amongst themselves- no one would be satisfied without an explanation for what happened here today. But they are respectful and dedicated disciples, and they hurry to obey. Jiang Liang collects all the practice swords from the other disciples, while Jiang Gan limps off to the healers along with Jiang Rou. The rest of the disciples scatter, slowly- a few to the great hall, to ensure that the fire hasn’t spread; more to the far-flung reaches of the piers, searching for any Wen hangers-on. Most go straight to their quarters- it’s been a long, confusing day, and none of them much want to deal with things any longer.

Eventually, only the main Jiang family are left. Even Jinzhu and Yinzhu have been dismissed.

Yu Ziyuan sags against the same wall that Yanli is still standing by, and Wei Wuxian collapses fully onto the pier.

Someone is holding Jiang Fengmian’s hand. Their hand is cold, and clammy, and dripping wet.

When he looks down, he sees a small boy holding his hand.

“A-Cheng?” He says, voice quiet and uncertain.

The people around them are struck dumb, staring at the scene unfolding.

The boy looks up at Jiang Fengmian.

“Dad,” he says, voice whiny and demanding, “carry me?”

Without hesitation, Jiang Fengmian swings his son up into his arms, cradling him against his chest.

Drip.

They never found the body.

It hadn’t even been a particularly stormy day. There had been some rains, of course, but when weren’t there rains in the early summer?

The rains that came certainly hadn’t been enough to wash away a body.

It was Jiang Fengmian’s fault. He should have listened to his son, should have given him private lessons, should have tried to make his son and Wei Ying get along instead of asking a-Cheng to capitulate to Wei Ying. They were both so young, and Jiang Fengmian had thought- had hoped- that a-Cheng would understand that Wei Ying would need extra help and extra support, since he didn’t have his parents anymore. He’d thought that since a-Cheng’s parents were alive, at least, he wouldn’t need them to be as involved.

Jiang Cheng had always been a needy child, ever since he was born. He’d had colic until he was six months old, and he was always fussy, unless someone was carrying him. He’d liked his big sister best, and then his mother, and then Jiang Fengmian- unless Jinzhu and Yinzhu were there, of course.

He was never an easy child, but that was no excuse. He was Jiang Fengmian’s son, and yet he didn’t do anything to save him. Jiang Fengmian had been busy training Wei Ying, and then finishing sect matters in his office. He’d been angry about Jiang Cheng’s attitude towards his new brother, and had decided to take time to himself to cool off, the way his own father never had.

And when Jiang Fengmian came back to talk to his son, he’d been gone.

Jiang Yanli had last seen him an hour previous. Yu Ziyuan, at breakfast. Wei Ying hadn’t seen him since the last time that Jiang Fengmian had.

None of the other disciples had seen Jiang Cheng since he’d met with his sister. He certainly hadn’t left- none of the vendors on the main street had seen him, nor had any of the disciples that frequented those shops or spent their times dangling their feet in the shallows to flirt with the locals.

Jiang Fengmian had kept searching.

They say there are no better swimmers in all the cultivation world than the disciples of Yunmeng-Jiang. The Jiang sect heir couldn’t have drowned. He must have still been alive.

But Jiang Cheng was gone, and he hadn’t left Lotus Pier.

Eventually, Lan Qiren came. He’d had his own children to take care of, courtesy of Qingheng-Jun, and yet he’d still sensed Jiang Fengmian falling apart and had come to help his old friend.

Jiang Fengmian had never hated the musical cultivation of the Gusu-Lan as much as he had when Lan Qiren played Inquiry.

Jiang Cheng. Seven years old. Drowned. Dark and scared.

Drowned. Dark and scared.

They’d tried their best to hold a funeral, but children weren’t meant to die before their parents.

Madam Yu had moved to a different set of rooms, set even farther off from Jiang Fengmian’s as her usual rooms. Farther away from Wei Ying and Jiang Yanli, too.

Wei Ying had changed rooms, too, leaving Jiang Cheng’s room- what had once been the brothers’ shared bedroom- untouched for a decade.

Jiang Yanli had tried even harder to fix everything, and kept hiding her own feelings behind a mask.

And Jiang Fengmian didn’t do anything to stop it.

They never found the body.

It was all Jiang Fengmian’s fault. Everything about it was his fault.

Drip.

Jiang Cheng died scared and lonely.

He knew it was his own fault- he’d never been good at making friends, and he fought pretty much daily with his new shixiong. He just got so angry, sometimes, and Dad said that it was ‘cause he had Mom’s personality, and a-Cheng tried to be better, but it was just so hard.

He’d gotten into a fight with his shixiong, that day. ‘Cause Ying-shixiong had said that Jiang Cheng could teach him how to swim, but then he chickened out and got mad when Jiang Cheng called him a chicken and tried to get him to try and go swimming. Even though Ying-shixiong lived in Lotus Pier, now, so he had to learn how to swim, or else he could drown.

They’d gotten into a fight. Jiang Cheng knew he shouldn’t have shoved him, but Wei Ying shouldn’t have said that Jiang Cheng could teach him how to swim if he didn’t actually want him to.

And then, Dad came and got Wei Ying for private lessons. He never taught Jiang Cheng privately, even though Jiang Cheng needed more help, and he got mad when a-Cheng said he needed help.

And then, Dad picked Shixiong up.

Jiang Cheng couldn’t remember the last time his dad had carried him. He only remembered four times that Dad had ever carried him, and those had been at least two years before Ying-shixiong came.

So Jiang Cheng yelled at his dad and his shixiong. He shouldn’t have- it was mean,and he should have taken a deep breath and counted to ten like his big sister always told him to, but he got so mad.

If he hadn't gotten mad, then he wouldn’t have died.

By the time he regretted yelling, though his dad and his shixiong were long gone.

He went to ask his big sister to swim with him. She always knew what to say, how to help Jiang Cheng apologize, how to get him to calm down.

She was the best big sister in the whole wide world.

But she was busy, that day, practicing her embroidery, and a-Cheng wasn’t good at sitting still. She couldn’t come and help Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Cheng only asked the one time. He didn’t want to be a bother.

It must have been a long lesson, that day, because Shixiong kept not coming back. Even after Jiang Cheng had gone to talk to his big sister, he didn’t come back, and eventually, Jiang Cheng got bored of sitting at the end of his dock, dangling his feet in the water.

So. He slipped into the water.

He wasn’t supposed to go swimming by himself- he was meant to have a senior with him, if his parents or sister were busy- but Jiang Cheng was a good swimmer, and it wasn’t storming, or anything. He was a good swimmer.

But he was still tired from fighting with his shixiong, and he didn’t have lunch, and he was all alone. The waters by this part of the dock were deeper than four grown-ups standing on each others’ shoulders, and Jiang Cheng spent lots of time diving to the bottom to find pretty rocks for his big sister.

But he was tired, and hungry, and he wasn’t supposed to go swimming by himself.

Jiang Cheng was supposed to be a good swimmer. He wasn’t supposed to get stuck under the waves, in the depths and the muck and the lakeweed.

But water is so much heavier than people think, and no matter how hard a-Cheng stretched his arms, he couldn’t reach the sunlight.

Drip.

Jiang Fengmian keeps his son cradled against his chest. His son doesn’t reach out to hold him back- he hugs himself, in Jiang Fengmian’s arms, as though if Jiang Cheng takes up too much space that Jiang Fengmian will decide that he isn’t worth it anymore.

“Is it,” Yanli says, before she stops herself. She takes a deep breath, and steps forward slowly. “A-Cheng?”

Jiang Cheng turns his head to face her, but his hair is in his face the way she always scolded him for.

“You look like a water ghoul, your hair falling over your eyes like that,” she used to tease, and he would pout at her until she combed his hair for him.

“Jiejie,” he says, simply. His voice is thick and wet, not bubbly and excitable the way Yanli remembers.

Yanli reaches forward, hand shaking, and brushes her baby brother’s soaking hair behind his ear. He looks up at her the same way he always used to, when she did this, half pouting and half pleased with the contact. His face is as young as always, with chubby cheeks and wide gray eyes. The only difference between then and now is how pale he suddenly is.

Even his summer freckles have faded.

“Jiejie?” he says, voice sweeter. Softer.

“Hi, a-Cheng,” Yanli murmurs. She moves her hand down, thumbing at his cheeks. Belatedly, she forces a smile on her face. “I missed you.”

Jiang Cheng nods into her hand. His eyes are as dewy as ever.

She sniffles, but tries to force herself to normalcy. “Yeah. Jiejie missed you lots,” she repeats.

Jiang Cheng blinks up at her, looking confused. He reaches up, slowly, and pats her on the cheek.

Oh. That wetness was from her own eyes, not from Jiang Cheng.

Yanli sniffles again. “I- Jiejie’s sorry, a-Cheng. I’m so sorry. If I-”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. He mimics the way Yanli had rubbed at his face, trying to be comforting in a way he never learned how to.

Yanli presses her hand over her younger brother’s and offers him a watery smile. “No,” she says, “no, Jiejie really is sorry.” She takes Jiang Cheng’s hand away from her face, folding it between both of hers. “I should have gone to watch you swim.”

Jiang Cheng frowns, pouting the way he always used to, with his cheeks all puffed out and his lower lip poking out. He wraps his smaller hand around Yanli’s and squeezes it.

“Jiejie,” he says, again. He tries to keep eye contact with Yanli, but his wet hair is slipping back in front of his face. He squeezes Yanli’s hand one last time. “It’s okay.” He guides Yanli’s hand back to his face and nuzzles against it. “Love you.”

Yanli’s smile wobbles, then breaks. “Jiejie loves a-Cheng, too,” she says, voice cracking. She thumbs at her baby brother’s cheek, then pushes his hair behind his ear. “Jiejie loves you so much.”

Jiang Cheng’s face breaks into a small smile. Not wide enough to show his dimples, but enough that Yanli forgets- just for a moment- what happened.

“Love you,” Jiang Cheng repeats.

Yanli sniffles, then takes a deep breath. She rests her hand on top of Jiang Cheng’s head, and manages a watery smile. “What in the world did I do,” she says, “to get such a good baby brother?”

Drip.

They go to the ancestral hall, Jiang Fengmian carrying his son all the way. Yu Ziyuan locks the door behind them, while Wei Wuxian lights the incense and Jiang Fengmian kneels with his son still in his lap. Yanli settles just behind her father, eyes still damp.

Once the incense is lit- cedar, myrrh, and lotus- Wei Wuxian settles directly to Jiang Fengmian’s right, and Yu Ziyuan to his left.

For a moment, they all sit together, in silence. The candles burn, and the scent of the incense wafts over them, but no one says anything.

Eventually, Yu Ziyuan reaches out, slowly, and takes her son’s hand. Jiang Cheng- apparently comfortable in his father’s arms- cranes his neck to watch his mother.

“Jiang Cheng,” she says. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and strokes her son’s hand with her thumb. She hadn’t held her son’s hand since he was first learning to walk- even then, it had been Yanli guiding him more often than not, quietly explaining to him how to watch his step, to not trip over the knots in the wood.

“A-Cheng,” Yu Ziyuan corrects, quietly. She squeezes her son’s hand. It feels almost like the scales of a fish. She takes a deep breath and gathers her thoughts. “A-Cheng. Mom’s here.” She squeezes his hand once more.”Mom- Mom is so proud of you, okay?” She takes a shaky breath. No one would ever believe that she’s the same woman known as the Violet Spider, as one of the cruelest and strictest female cultivators in the world.

Right now, she looks like a woman mourning her son.

“Mom loved you very much,” she says, then winces. “Loves. Mom loves you very much.”

She still hasn’t turned to look at her son. Her eyes are already welling over with tears, and she’s only staring at the faded portrait of him on the altar. He looks serious in his portrait, after how many hours of Yu Ziyuan scolding him to act like a proper young sect heir.

She’ll regret it, if she doesn’t turn to look. Just- not right now. Not until she’s in control of herself.

“Mama is so glad,” she says. Her voice cracks, and she stops mid-sentence to clear her throat and start over. “Mama is so glad that you’re her son. Mama loves you.”

She hasn’t called herself Mama since a-Cheng was two, and he hasn’t called her Mama since he was four.

There’s silence for another moment.

Jiang Cheng squeezes his mom’s hand.

“Mama,” he murmurs. “Love you.”

Yu Ziyuan turns to look at her son. He’s craned his neck so far that he’s nearly upside-down, with his eyes wide. He looks silly, the way Yu Ziyuan always scolded him for.

The tears spill over, and she looks away, burying her face in her hands.

“It’s alright, my lady,” Jiang Fengmian says, quietly. He rubs his son’s back. “It’s alright.”

Drip.

The incense sticks have nearly burned out by now, and their scent is thick in the air. The candles are noticeably shorter, and it’s undeniably nighttime now.

They don’t have much time left.

“I didn’t- know you, for very long,” Wei Wuxian says, awkwardly. He shifts out of his kneeling posture and goes cross-legged, perpendicular to Jiang Fengmian. He’s staring straight at his shidi, but with the way the soaking wet hair has gone back to covering his face, it’s awkward to try and make eye contact. Wei Wuxian shifts to stare at his shidi’s bare foot. “Just- only a month, right? I know we didn’t get along at first, right, but- we were friends. Right?”

Jiang Cheng’s foot twitches minutely. “Shixiong,” he agrees.

“Right. Martial siblings, I guess, but- friendly enough.” Wei Wuxian fidgets. “I know we fought kind of a lot, but I did still like being your friend, y’know? I didn’t really have friends before I came to Lotus Pier, so I guess you were my first ever friend. I think we got along alright, right?” He’s rambling. He always rambles when he gets nervous.

“Anyways. I just.” Wei Wuxian shrugs. He glances up to Jiang Cheng’s face, then away again. Slowly, he reaches out and takes his shidi’s hand. They’d tussled and wrestled, occasionally, but they’d never been affectionate with each other like Yanli was. Punches in the shoulder more than holding hands. “I wanted to say. I’m glad we were friends. Y’know? And I’m sorry about the fight.”

Jiang Cheng extricates his hand from Wei Wuxian’s grip and flicks him. “Shixiong.”

“Shidi,” Wei Wuxian says. He leans further over and grinds his knuckles into his shidi’s forehead.

Jiang Cheng scowls at him and bats his hand away. “Shixiong,” he says, sounding grumpy.

“Shidi,” Wei Wuxian says, mimicking his shidi’s tone.

They’re silent, for another moment, before Jiang Cheng perks up. “Shixiong,” he says, “do you know how to swim?”

Wei Wuxian smiles a little sadly. “Yeah, Shidi,” he says, tousling his shidi’s hair. “Shixiong knows how to swim.”

Drip.

The incense has burned out, and the candles are half as tall as they were when they all sat down. They’ve spent most of the time in the ancestral hall in total silence.

Eventually, Jiang Cheng shifts out of his father’s grip. Even standing, he’s shorter than his father.

“A-Cheng?” Jiang Fengmian asks.

“Go swimming,” Jiang Cheng answers, nebulously. He’s almost completely dry, now, and his figure flickers in the candlelight.

Jiang Fengmian’s lips thin. Behind him, his daughter sniffles, and his wife clenches her jaw. Wei Wuxian is staring at the wooden floor.

“…I see,” he says, voice quiet. He turns to face the altar, bows once, twice, three times. “Thank you,” he says, quietly, “for being such a filial son, and continuing to look after Lotus Pier.’

The other members of his family imitate him. They didn’t bring anything to drink, so there’s no way for them to toast. They’ll have to do that later.

Finally, Jiang Fengmian stands. Jiang Cheng is standing next to the doors, still flickering.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Jiang Cheng nods. “Carry me?”

Without saying a word, Jiang Fengmian picks his son up again. It’s more difficult than it was the first time, as if Jiang Fengmian’s eyes can’t quite focus on where his son is standing, and his hands can’t quite agree on whether or not they have a solid grip.

He lifts his son anyways.

They go to that same pier that Wei Wuxian frequents. Most of the disciples have the good sense to have retreated to their dorms, and the ones that haven’t do at least have the good sense to stay out of the Jiang family’s way.

The torches haven’t been lit, yet. They should be, to assist in the searching for corpses, but Jiang Fengmian doubts that they’ll find any. Not after what happened.

Jiang Fengmian doesn’t put his son down until he’s at the edge of the dock. He doesn’t want to put him down at all, but. Sometimes you don’t have a choice.

“It’s alright,” Jiang Fengmian says. It’s not clear who he’s speaking to. “Everything’s okay.”

Jiang Cheng nods as his feet tap down on the pier. He pats his father twice on the hand before stepping away.

He looks over at his family- Yanli still has a smile fixed to her face, and Wei Wuxian still looks out of place, and Madam Yu is still crying.

“Love you,” he says.

Before any of them can reply, Jiang Cheng takes a step off of the pier.

Without a single ripple, he descends beneath the waves and is gone.

…It’s a quiet night.